by Ilari Pass
The woman, not her desire, is like the spider
when she takes unto herself a frail house.
If only her lover knew, she’ll wait for the moon
to pry open the night, her web will flash
silver sparkles, an allurement to destruction
between lines of white she writes
toward the silence.
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When Ilari isn’t writing poetry or stories, she recites Ayahs (verses) from the Quran; travels with her family; plays hide-and-go-seek, blows bubbles, and catches fireflies with her 4-year-old grandson. Nominated twice for the 2021 Best of the Net Anthology and other accolades, you can find her work in Pithead Chapel, Door is A Jar, The Write Launch, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Indianapolis Review, and others.